by Meier, Susan
“Whatever Olivia wants is fine.”
She quickly looked away. “Since we started off slowly maybe we should continue to move slowly.” But when she risked a peek at Tucker a few minutes later, he was still watching her, studying her.
After breakfast they took the limo to retrieve Antonio then drove along twisting country roads to Bordighera. Cobblestone streets and walkways took them to Patrice’s villa gallery. As they drove, Constanzo pointed out the villa of a British royal, the sites Monet had painted and the homes of two novelists.
When they stepped out of the limo, the June sun washed them in warmth. The sound of the surf caused Vivi to turn and see the ocean.
“It’s beautiful.”
Antonio said, “Now you can see why I decided to stay.”
She laughed and nodded, as Patrice opened the front door of her villa and welcomed them inside.
Vivi glanced around in awe. Rich red Oriental rugs accented the white marble beneath them. White drapes billowed to the floor. Chandeliers were everywhere. Eight or ten paintings hung on each wall. Antique tables held small sculptures and blown glass.
“I can’t imagine living here.”
“I don’t,” Patrice said, leading them to a stairway and her office. “Well, technically, I do since I have an apartment on the third floor. But I always thought this villa too beautiful to keep to myself.” She smiled at Vivi. “I made it a gallery so I can share it.”
They signed the agreements in Patrice’s office—a warm, welcoming space, different than the formal rooms of the gallery. Right from the beginning, working for Tucker Engle had been eye-opening, and coming to Italy would probably top her list of favorite things she had done in her lifetime. But standing in a gallery, surrounded by paintings and sculptures, blown glass and jewelry so perfect it had to be displayed as art, was surreal.
Oddly, she felt she belonged here. As if she had come home.
Antonio, Constanzo and Patrice shook hands. Patrice made arrangements to go to Antonio’s house the next day to begin selecting paintings. Constanzo suggested dinner at his home to celebrate and though Patrice declined, Antonio happily accepted.
They played pool. Ate dinner outside. Drank Scotch.
And the whole time Tucker watched her.
It made an otherwise enjoyable evening nerve-racking. As early as politely possible, she excused herself and headed for her room. She showered and almost slid into her pajamas but it was still too early to sleep. Knowing the men would spend hours playing games in the den, she put on jeans and a T-shirt and headed for the pool.
This time she saw Tucker standing by the sparkling water before she turned the doorknob to go outside. Boldness surged through her. He’d badgered her until she’d told him about Cord. He’d held her feet to the fire, forcing her to take charge of the Antonio project since they were using her idea. And he’d kissed her.
Then today he’d stared at her all day as if she were some sort of bug under a microscope.
Half of her wanted to go out and brag. Her idea might not have seemed like a good one to him, but he had trusted her with it and it was working. Her idea was working. She was not going to fail.
The other half wanted to go out and...well, brag too. But in a sharing way. She wanted to say, “Look what we’re doing! Look what we’re accomplishing! We’re bringing together a lonely dad and his son. Even though we don’t seem like we belong together, we are a good team.”
But that was actually the point. If she went out there and they celebrated their success, weren’t they tempting fate?
He might like her but he didn’t want to. Hell, he wasn’t even really sure he wanted her as an assistant. Forget about anything else. And she knew the dangers of getting too close to someone so far out of her league.
She took one last longing look at him, standing by the pool, looking as if he might be waiting for her—
She turned and went back to her room.
CHAPTER NINE
THE NEXT DAY they returned to Antonio’s with Patrice. As he had the day before, Tucker watched Vivi happily help Antonio as he worked with Patrice, an odd feeling in his gut. When he looked at her and Antonio, he saw a couple. When he thought of himself and Olivia together, he saw a disaster.
So why—two days later—did the memory of her breathy request to call her Olivia still fill him with a yearning so primal, so hot, that he wanted to do more than kiss her?
He had no idea. But sharp need pressed in on him. Something about her appealed to him on an elemental level he’d never experienced before. And maybe it was time he stopped denying it?
Patrice began examining paintings, setting two side by side, and a minute later sending one to a group on the right and the other to a group on the left. A process that Tucker would have thought would take days seemed to be taking minutes.
Finally, she sighed. “Here’s the deal. I like them all. I can put almost half of these in the downstairs of my gallery, but if I open the second floor I could double that number.”
Though Tucker thought that was wonderful news, anxiety flitted through Antonio’s eyes.
Constanzo apparently didn’t notice. His face beamed with pride. “And we will invite everybody. I have ordered my personal assistant to begin a list. I’ll have a thousand people at that showing.”
This time Antonio looked like he would faint. Olivia caught his arm. “Hey, this is your showing. If you don’t want a thousand people, just tell us what you do want.”
Tucker frowned. Interesting that she wasn’t nervous around Antonio. Only around him. No. Strike that. She wasn’t nervous around him either. Except when they were close. Or getting personal. Then she got antsy.
He knew the feeling. Once he’d gotten through puberty no woman had made him nervous or confused. Yet with her everything was weird. Different. Confusing.
Antonio took a breath. “I’d like the doors to be opened and people to come in off the street.” He glanced at Vivi. “Because they want to come in. Not because they’re invited.”
Patrice smiled patiently. “But you also need to advertise. Send out invitations at least for the opening night.”
Olivia said, “How about this? We’ll send out invitations for the opening. That will let Mr. Bartulocci’s friends know he’s sponsoring a showing. We’ll get RSVPs for the actual opening night and invite the rest to stop by while your pieces are on display.”
Pride stirred within Tucker. Once again she saw what everybody else seemed to miss. While Patrice thought about making money and Constanzo had found a way to introduce his son to the world, Olivia watched the star and knew he was falling.
Antonio sucked in a breath. “That sounds a little more doable.”
“The goal of your show is to sell your paintings,” Patrice reminded him.
“And our goal,” Constanzo quietly countered, finally seeing what Vivi had noticed all along, “wasn’t to make money but to introduce a wonderful new talent. That’s why I’m paying for everything. There’s no chance of a loss for you.”
Patrice smiled woodenly. “Of course.”
Antonio hugged Vivi. “Thanks.”
Her face reddened, but her eyes danced with pleasure. Still, she didn’t get the look—the look she’d gotten when she’d asked him to call her Olivia. The look that still filled his blood with lust every time he thought of it.
She might like Antonio but she wasn’t interested in him. Not the way she was interested in Tucker.
Constanzo chatted through the entire limo ride. But when they got to his house, his maid approached him with a message. He read it then excused himself to make a call. Olivia went to her room. Tucker ambled back to the den, poured himself a draft and threw a few darts before Constanzo joined him.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
Tucker turned from t
he dart board. “Bad news?”
“The call I had to return was to Maria.” He winced. “She’s managed to get herself into a bit of trouble with her mother. It’s nothing that a visit from me won’t cure but it’s also not something I’d expect my guests to endure.”
Tucker laughed.
“So you and Vivi have the whole house to yourselves tonight. I’ve instructed the cook to make spaghetti Bolognese for dinner. Serve it with the Sangiovese. Make yourselves at home.”
“Thanks.” Anticipation pricked his nerve endings. He and Olivia would be alone? They hadn’t had two minutes alone since that kiss...
Maybe it was time they did?
Knowing Olivia was already nervous around him, he decided not to tell her. When she went to the pool, he returned to his room to read emails and make calls.
He checked on dinner before showering and changing into trousers and a white shirt, which he left open at the throat. No tie. No sport coat. Nothing to make her feel—what had she said? Less than?
When she arrived in the dining room he had the Sangiovese breathing. She immediately noticed only two places had been set at the table and she stopped a few feet away from her seat.
Her gaze swung to his. “Just you and me?”
Downplaying the significance of that, since he didn’t want her running before they had a chance to talk about that kiss, he walked over and pulled out her chair. “It seems Maria’s gotten herself into some trouble with her mother. Constanzo has to smooth ruffled feathers.”
She laughed lightly as she sat. “It’s kind of funny to think of Maria as being in trouble with her mom. She doesn’t seem like the kind of woman who answers to anyone.”
“Everybody answers to someone.”
She laughed again. “Yeah. With my parents I think I know that better than anyone.” She paused until he sat at the place across from her. “You do know they came to check up on you the day they visited New York?”
This time he laughed. “I’m sure I made a stellar impression.” But even as he said that, an odd realization came to him. He’d never met a girlfriend’s parents. Not one. Because he didn’t really have girlfriends. He had dates—lovers.
“Good enough that my parents trusted me to go to Italy with you.” She winced. “Of course, I had to do some persuading, but in the end they trusted you.”
He sucked in a breath. Strange feelings tumbled around in his gut. No parents in their right minds should trust their beautiful, naive daughter to him—
Unless they expected him to behave like a gentleman? To them, Olivia wasn’t a “date” or a “lover”. She was their daughter. Their little girl and they would expect him to treat her as such.
The maid brought their salads and garlic bread. After she was gone, Olivia tasted her salad and groaned. “That is fantastic. I’m going to have to diet when we get home.”
“Then you probably don’t want to know that our main course is spaghetti Bolognese.”
She groaned again and set down the garlic bread. “I’ll focus on the salad so I have room for the spaghetti.”
They ate in silence for a few seconds, then she glanced around. “My mother would probably love Italy.”
More talk of her parents, more of those uncomfortable feelings. “Really?”
“My mom likes things with roots. Family recipes. Older houses. She researched our house after she and Dad bought it. Found relatives of the woman who had owned it, and got some of the family recipes.” She took a bite of salad, chewed and swallowed. “She said preparing those dishes was like keeping that family alive, too. She respects the sense of continuity.”
He smiled, but discomfort graduated to awkwardness. He didn’t even know who his parents were. He’d tried to find them a few years back, but there were no clues. He was a baby left alone in a church. Generic blanket. Department-store bottle and diapers. There was no way to find them. He had no parents, no pictures. No old family recipes. No sense of continuity.
“That—” He paused. Not having a normal family had always bothered him from the perspective of not having a support system. But from the way Olivia talked about her mother it was clear she was her friend. They were close. Loving. Impossible for him to comprehend. “That sounds nice.”
“It is nice.” She laughed. “She’s quite the mother hen.”
He poured more wine. “What about your dad?”
“Oh, he’s our big teddy bear. He doesn’t say a lot but we always know he loves us, you know?”
He didn’t. He’d never known anyone loved him. In fact, in spite of the declarations of a few lovers, he didn’t think anyone had actually loved him.
“He’s also a card player. When we lose electricity in an ice storm, he always starts a candlelight game of Texas Hold’em or rummy.”
Which explained why she had been so comfortable playing rummy with Constanzo the day she’d met him.
“Your dad gambled with you?”
“We’d play for candy.”
“Sounds nice.” Again. He could envision her family huddled around a table, playing a game by candlelight. Laughing. Just enjoying each other’s company. The thought twisted his heart but teased his imagination.
“What about holidays?” He really shouldn’t ask. Hearing her stories only reminded him of what he didn’t have, but he couldn’t resist. In the same way she tempted him, so did thoughts of a family. He’d longed for one as a child, considered the possibility of having one when he tried to track down his parents, then closed the door when he couldn’t find them.
Now here he was longing again, just like a little boy with his nose pressed up against a candy-store window.
“My mom’s favorite is Easter. She loves pastel colors. Hiding Easter eggs. Going to the Easter-egg hunt sponsored by the volunteer firemen. And though most Americans don’t wear hats anymore, she still gets a new one every year for church on Easter Sunday.”
He laughed and took a sip of wine.
“But even though she likes Easter the best, my dad’s the Christmas freak. Have you ever seen those movies where people try to outdo each other with outdoor lights?”
“I’ve seen a few.”
The spaghetti came. The aroma filled the room and she inhaled deeply. “Wow. That smells fantastic.”
“Constanzo promised you some really good food in return for sharing that leftover Chinese food. So far he’s made good on his promise.”
She winced. “He probably thought I was such a dork. I didn’t even have a plate for him. He had to eat out of the box.”
“I think he was too hungry to care. Besides, a lot of people like eating food out of boxes. It reminds them of their childhood.”
“Does eating food out of boxes remind you of your childhood?”
His chest tightened. He should have realized that she’d turn this discussion to him. She was too polite to monopolize a conversation.
“I don’t remember a lot of my childhood.”
“I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have brought that up.”
“It’s fine.” It wasn’t. He’d convinced himself to believe his lonely childhood had strengthened him, made him into the strong man he was today, but strength wasn’t the only quality a person wanted to have. Knowing her had resurrected his longing for a connection, a place, a real place where he wasn’t just wanted and respected, but where he could be himself.
“I’m sure growing up in foster care had to have been difficult.”
“It was.”
“I shouldn’t have brought up Christmas.”
“It’s fine. Really.” He cleared his throat. To salvage his pride, he couldn’t let her feel sorry for him. “Some foster families really tried. But they don’t get a lot of money from the government to care for the kids they take in so they can’t do everything. As a foster child,
you adjust.”
The room fell silent again. He toyed with his spaghetti. Worried that she still felt bad, he caught her gaze. “But I had some nice Christmases.”
Her face brightened. “Did you?”
“Yes. Two. One year when I was about six I really wanted a certain video game. My foster parents already had the game box in the family room that could play the game, so I asked for it knowing I probably wouldn’t get it, but they got it for me.”
Her eyes warmed. “That’s nice.”
He thought back to that day. The one day in his childhood when he actually thought life could be wonderful. “It was nice. But because my foster parents had spent so much on the toy, I didn’t get the usual clothes I would have gotten as gifts and my jeans wore thin. I spent the rest of the winter wearing shoes with a hole in the bottom.”
“Oh.”
He cursed himself in his head. Now he knew why he shied away from honesty. It hurt. And not just him. He could actually feel sorrow pouring from her.
And that was why he’d always be alone. Or with women who didn’t care to know him. No man wanted a woman he lusted after feeling sorry for him.
“You have to be proud of yourself for how far you’ve come.”
“Yes. Of course, I am.” He sat straighter on his chair, closed his heart. Forgot about all those longings for the things she’d had and could tell him about. “But it should also make you realize that if you really want to become successful, you shouldn’t let anything stand in your way.”
He turned the conversation to a discussion of focus and discipline as they finished dinner then excused himself.
The empty, lonely feeling that followed him to his room was an echo of what he’d sensed with Constanzo, and he realized he and the reclusive old billionaire had a lot in common. His refusal to be vulnerable might be the right choice, but at sixty-five or seventy, he was going to wake up one day and find himself every bit as alone as Constanzo was now.
But in some lives there was no choice. Opening up and being honest simply couldn’t be done.
